Not a Happy Camper by Mindy Schneider Read Free Book Online Page B

thousands, a solid wall of bees.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Dana asked.
    â€œI think I might be allergic,” I explained.
    â€œJust walk really fast. And close your mouth,” Dana advised.
    â€œYou don’t want to swallow any.”

    She had no idea I had the potential to swell, to look like a hippo or an elephant or one of those balloons from the Macy’s parade. And that certainly wasn’t going to impress any boys.
    The old-timers, experienced with this routine from summers past, led the way. They walked ahead, albeit stiffly and carefully, then motioned to the rest of us. Most of the newcomers tentatively followed, walking a little bit faster, almost running, trying not to scream, as that would have necessitated opening their mouths. Even the youngest girls got up their nerve. I couldn’t be the only chicken. I clenched my fists, held my breath and walked as fast as I could through the bees until I joined the rest of the group. Sure enough, the man in the full-body protection was right—no one got stung. Once we were all well past the bees, we ran. This unpleasant ritual would be repeated weekly for the entire summer.
    We arrived at Boys’ Side about fifteen minutes early. Kenny came bounding up to me.
    â€œHi,” he said. “How are you?”
    I was nearly speechless. I couldn’t believe he was talking to me.
Maybe he’d come to his senses overnight?
    He asked, “You get back okay last night?”
    Kenny was all but ignoring Dana, who was standing next to me. It was too good to be true. I had to say something. Something clever. Something that had nothing to do with singing or how bananas smelled.
    â€œUm... yeah. I got back okay.”
    Something better than that, but someone was heading toward us. It was Philip.
    â€œMindy! Hi!”
    And it was the worst possible moment. Couldn’t he tell that I was talking to Kenny because I wanted to be talking to Kenny and I didn’t want to be talking to him?
    Evidently not.

    â€œWanna see something cool over in the Social Hall?” Philip asked, then, finally noting my expression, “Oh, did I interrupt?”
    â€œWell...” I began, turning toward Kenny.
    Kenny was busy watching Dana talking to Aaron.
    Philip had messed up everything. And what was worse, it was possible Kenny still liked Dana, even after the way she’d snubbed him the night before. Unless, I thought,
It’s bothering him that I’m talking to Philip because it’s bad for me to be talking to someone most people ignore and as Kenny’s girlfriend, what I do reflects on him.
    It was all very complicated.
    But talking to someone no one else talks to shouldn’t make me look bad. It should make me look... kind. And everyone likes kind people.
    So I decided to ask Kenny if he’d mind my leaving with Philip, but Kenny was gone.
    Philip led me into the Social Hall and behind the darkened stage. I had no idea what he wanted to show me and wished I had a set of keys with me so I could do that thing where you place them between your fingers, just in case.
    But instead of lunging at me, Philip pointed up to the rafters. “Look. See?”
    Campers’ names and their years of attendance were painted everywhere. At first sight this was nothing special. It is a summer camp tradition to sign your name, to leave your mark so people will know you were here, old-fashioned legible graffiti. I could tell you exactly who had lived in my bunk in 1966 and every summer since. It’s also a tradition that when the walls get too full, they are painted over to make room for the next batch of names.
    Backstage, however, the walls had never been repainted. These were the names of campers from the early days, including the dead ones Autumn Evening Schwartz claimed to be in touch with. Philip showed me his favorite autograph:
Harold Selig ‘22–‘30
. “That was my grandfather,” Philip explained.